


The Life, Death, And Life Of Mollymauk

by thepetulantpen



Series: Mollymauk Lives Fest Prompt Fills [2]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Dryad!Molly, F/F, Fake Dating, M/M, Modern AU, Pirates, Tarot Cards, class swap, cross-posted from my tumblr (same username), mention of character death followed immediately by resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23193247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepetulantpen/pseuds/thepetulantpen
Summary: Prompt fills for Mollymauk Lives Fest 2019!1- Tarot/Fake Dating2- Circus/Class Swap3- Pirates/Dancing4- Flowers/Resurrection5- Modern AU/Kindness(Yes, this is from months ago but I'm working through a backlog of things to cross-post from my tumblr.)
Relationships: Beauregard Lionett/Yasha, Fjord/Mollymauk Tealeaf, Mollymauk Tealeaf & Yasha, Mollymauk Tealeaf/Caleb Widogast
Series: Mollymauk Lives Fest Prompt Fills [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1667434
Comments: 3
Kudos: 62





	1. Tarot/Fake Dating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly (and Jester) have to assist in beauyasha shenanigans.

“Molly?”

“Yes, Yasha?”

Molly doesn’t look up from the tarot cards he’s shuffling but his head tilts slightly in her direction, letting her know he’s listening. The lack of eye contact, at least, eases her nerves, but she still fidgets nervously as she sits across from him at the low table.

“Do you,” Yasha looks down at her hands, picking at the nail she cracked in their last battle, “Do you think…”

Molly looks up at Yasha and finds her totally obscured by her hair falling in front of her face, forming a dark curtain. He smiles, leans across the table, and gently moves the hair aside to look at her. Her eyes cut sharply up towards him at the movement, strong and intimidating- for anyone who hasn’t known her as long as Molly, anyway.

“Do I think what?”

Yasha bites her lip and holds back a sigh, resolving to do this despite the preemptive regret forming a bitter mass in her chest. It’s all irrational; she’s talked to Molly about stupider things.

“Do you think Beau, uh, _likes_ me, or do you think she,” Yasha looks away, trying to think of a way to put this, then settles on flexing her arm, as if showing off her muscles, “just likes me?”

“You think she likes you for your _muscles_?”

“No! I mean, yes, but I meant whether she’s interested in… _me_ or just my looks.”

Yasha’s face twists, unsure whether- or, really, _why_ \- Beau would want either of those things. Molly plants a hand on the table and vaults over it to deposit himself on the cushion beside Yasha. She looks down at him and he presses closer, rubbing her arm in reassurance.

“Yasha, I can assure you it’s _definitely_ both.”

She snorts and raises an eyebrow. “And how can you be so sure?”

“Are you _questioning_ my incredible insight and foresight?” Molly pulls back a little and puts a hand over his heart in mock offense, barely keeping the shocked facade together as his smile threatens to break through.

“What if I am?”

Yasha smiles a challenge, brute force in the shine of it, and Molly meets it with a smile of his own, like a mouthful of sharp knives.

“Well, we’ll just have to consult the cards, in that case.”

He moves back around the table, takes up his cards, and settles into a showman’s stance, poised and energetic. Yasha crosses her arms and keeps her eyes on the cards and Molly’s hands, ready to catch any potential tell that Molly is rigging her reading.

Normally, Molly wouldn’t dare rig a card result for Yasha- it would be pointless, since she’s seen all his tricks before and can easily catch him- but today is a special occasion. Luckily, he mastered some new sleight of hand while she was away and he puts it to the test now.

A whirl of hands and cards he just barely keeps from fumbling shows him the card he was hoping for. It’s almost a surprise, since he was nearly sure he’d lost track of it somewhere in the unrehearsed trick.

“Two of Cups. Lucky you, Yasha.”

She scoffs and shakes her head, smiling despite herself. Yasha, of course, knows what that card means, has seen Molly pull it for many lonely customers who came seeking something more.

“How did you manage to hide that one?”

“Do you _dare_ accuse me of disgracing the sanctity of tarot cards? I would _never_ misdeliver a message from the _stars_ -“ Molly cuts himself off with a yelp when Yasha throws a cushion at him.

He throws it back and Yasha catches it mid-air but by then it’s a proper pillow fight and Molly plays dirty- upending the table to use as a shield and throwing multiple pillows at once. The previously cozy sitting room is a disaster in just a few minutes, pillows and tarot cards strewn about the floor, underneath the sprawled, laughing forms of Molly and Yasha.

Molly props himself up and carefully unsticks a stray card from his forehead, redirecting his attention to Yasha. He knows it’s his turn to say something, or she’ll never ask for help herself.

“Hey, Yasha?”

Yasha, laying on her back next to Molly, looks up with a quiet hum.

“I can get you that date.”

Yasha looks at him seriously, eyes staring straight through his exterior and into his thoughts. He has nothing to hide, not from her, so he stares back until she looks back up at the ceiling.

“I think I’d like that,” she‘s quiet for a second, considering, then she grins mischievously, “if you can deliver, that is.”

“With the Moonweaver’s blessing and my incredible charm? There’s not a chance I’d fail, dear.”

…

That night, Molly prays to Moonweaver, much more reverently than he normally does.

He lights a candle and sets out the Two of Cups card, now slightly bent from its encounter with a cushion. The moon shines down on him through the window, Her light casting crisscrossing highlights across his skin, a web that remains there even as he lays down to sleep.

It feels less like sleeping and more like being transported to another place entirely- a place that glows dimly and spins dizzily, showing him blurry visions of things yet to come.

There’s dancing and music and a big banner for a gala he recognizes. There’s moonlight on a shadowy path, and a sharp turn into an even more private alcove. There’s two cups, two lovers, four hands.

He wakes up half out of bed and already stumbling over to Yasha’s cot. He’s shaken her awake by the time he’s blinked the sleep out of his eyes enough to realize it’s still the middle of the night.

“Molly? What—“

“Two weeks. You’ll have your date in two weeks.”

…

Fourteen days later, Molly is brushing and failing to braid Yasha’s hair beside Jester, who is putting Beau’s hair into an elaborate updo.

“When I get back from this damn party, I’m going to kill you.”

Beau hasn’t stopped scowling since Molly managed to convince the group that Beau should lead the undercover charge into the gala, dressed as a made-up political figure. Or, technically, she did take a brief break from scowling when he’d suggested Yasha should go with her, as a bodyguard and dance partner, but she’s right back on it now.

Molly is loving the rare opportunity to annoy Beau and help Yasha at the same time.

“You wouldn’t risk the blood on your hands, it would besmirch the good reputation of Countess Lionett.”

Beau restrains herself from throwing something at him, probably only because she doesn’t want to upset Jester’s work. She’ll be sitting there for a while, if Molly knows Jester and her delusions of grandeur, especially when it comes to fashion.

Yasha’s hair, on the other hand, is already done, or as good as it’s going to get, anyway. Molly isn’t an expert but it’s difficult to mess up a braid too badly, so he thinks it’s passable.

“Come on, let’s leave the royalty to their business and go get you dressed.”

He leads Yasha back to their room, away from eavesdropping ears so they can have a pre-date/pre-mission pep talk. Molly is certain Jester is doing the same for Beau, but Yasha doesn’t seem to fully believe him on that front yet.

“She’s just as nervous as you are, I guarantee it.”

Molly sits on the other side of a dressing panel, behind which Yasha is struggling into a dress. He’d offered to get her a suit, but she’d insisted and he knows she’ll be great in the bright blues and purples they picked out.

“I just,” there’s a clatter as Yasha knocks something over and a swear as she bends to pick it up, “I keep thinking, what if I screw it up? You know what they say about first dates.”

“Well, it’s not _really_ your first date.”

Yasha peeks over the panel at him, absurdly easy with her height, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“What do you mean?”

Molly turns and grins up at her. “Since you’ll be pretending to be someone else for the mission, it’s a fake date, technically. Which means it really only counts as like… half a date. A trial run. So there’s no pressure.”

Yasha blinks and Molly can see a light spell flicking on in her head. “I didn’t think of that.”

“That’s what I’m here for, my brilliant ideas and fresh perspectives. Now, are you dressed?”

Yasha steps out from behind the panel, dress swishing around her feet as she goes. It’s primarily a beautiful, royal blue and it’s covered in cascading patches of lavender embroidered flowers, trailing from the bodice all the way to the hem. The lace sleeves match the color of the flowers, pulling all of it together in a color scheme that perfectly complements her eyes.

It’s _perfect_.

“Oh, Yasha,” Molly smiles and steps forward, fixing a few strands of hair and straightening a wrinkle in the sleeve, “You’re going to be great out there.”

“You think so?” Yasha’s voice is soft, scared to be hopeful.

“I know so, dear. Here,” he takes the flower pin he commissioned, just for this occasion, and puts it in her hair, just above her ear, “The final touch.”

Yasha smiles and Molly leads her out to meet Beau.

…

Everyone is tense the night of the gala, apprehensive about the thin ruse they’ve set up and the responsibility they’ve placed on Beau and Yasha’s shoulders.

Well. Everyone except Molly and Jester.

Nothing anyone says about “how important this mission is” or “how essential it is that Beau gathers the information they need” or “how disastrous it could be if either Yasha or Beau is found out” can dampen their good mood. While the rest of the party is worrying- needless, they might add, since Beau and Yasha are plenty competent enough for this- they make a whole night out of watching the lights and giggling about their matchmaking skills.

“I mean, ‘fake it till you make it’? That’s _brilliant_ , Molly. Who would’ve known getting a date could be as easy as just pretending?”

Jester’s eyes slide over towards Fjord as she says it and Molly makes a note of future schemes to attempt the next time the opportunity arises. But for now, he just laughs and keeps an eye on the party, watching carefully for when the lights start to dim and the patrons begin filtering out.

“Hey, Jes? Could you cover me for a sec, I gotta… do something.”

Jester waggles her eyebrows and Molly leaves her with a wink that says “I’ll tell you later” as he slips away from the group and down the walkway he saw in his dream.

The moonlight outlines a forgotten path off of the main sidewalk, its stepping stones overgrown with bushes and weeds. It leads to a private clearing that’ll be perfect for the end of their evening together. He has to do some gardening to clear the path and partially block the other way, which he’s pretty sure is a punishable offense, in this neighborhood. Nonetheless, in a few minutes he’s got a lovely path and a bunch of random branches strewn over the main road. It’s not the best diversion, but he’s got a few other things he needs to set up before they show so he lets it be and enters the little clearing.

It probably used to be a beautiful place for respectable lovers, protected by trees and furnished by flower bushes, but it’s now majorly overgrown, vines and weeds creeping up the archway, table, and two chairs. It’s still beautiful, but fitting for a different pair of lovers, wilder and with some secrets between them.

He sets out the two chalices and bottle of wine he brought with him, then, as an afterthought, places the Two of Cups card in the center of the table.

He steps back to take a look at the arrangement and determines that his work here is done- and not a moment too soon, as he can hear footsteps on the path and realizes they’re a little closer than he thought they’d be. Thinking fast (maybe _too_ fast), he dives into the nearest bush, trying to obscure himself as best he can with his color scheme.

Molly certainly hadn’t intended on spying on their date, but he does get a surge of pride when he sees the two of them arrive together, wreathed in moonlight.

Beau is wearing the cobalt gown Jester picked out for her, expensive and fitting for the character she’s meant to play. It flows around her as she walks and the shimmery, sky blue sheer that hangs from the sleeves glitters in the moonlight. Molly always thought she’d be more of a suit person but she definitely makes the dress work, strong and graceful at once.

They dance and Molly looks away, trying to give them as much privacy as he can without being able to escape undetected.

He may not be the most… nuanced person when it comes to romance, but even he can see that fake dating isn’t quite a guarantee for a good relationship. Still, it’s nice to have an excuse to be close to people sometimes. Close in way that would seem scary, even unachievable, if it was real. Close in a way that seems too far away from their real lives. Close in a way that is only intimidating if they stop pretending that this is all a farce.

Molly is happy to give that to them.

When the night is over and their glasses clink against the table, Molly finally relaxes and looks back. Yasha looks down at him, maybe by chance or maybe she’d known all along, and Molly gives a tiny thumbs up through the leaves.

Beau lags behind her for a few seconds.

“Hey, Yash, I gotta fix my shoe. Go ahead, I’ll catch up to you.”

She leans over and does a poor job of pretending to mess with her shoe- Molly hopes she did a better job with her acting during the gala- until Yasha is out of sight.

Molly stays deathly still, futilely wishing for a second miracle that’ll get him out of this unscathed, as Beau stomps over to his hiding place and towers over the bush.

“I’ll get you back for this one day,” Beau looks down the path, making sure Yasha is out of ear shot, and her voice lowers, grudging and almost under her breath, “But thanks.”

Still crouched awkwardly in the bushes, Molly clears enough leaves to smile up at her and watch her follow after Yasha.

“Anytime, Beau. Anytime.”


	2. Circus/Class Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the bloodhunter becomes the barbarian, and vice versa.

The first time Molly and Yasha meet, Bo and Gustav are dragging his heavily bleeding body towards camp.

He looks like he tried to take on a pack of gnolls by himself and paid the price in a collection of bite and claw marks. Even bleeding and clearly in pain, he struggles against their help, something bright and restless and untrusting in his eyes as he fights mindlessly. Yasha has to hold him down to allow Ornna to do some first aid and she strains to do so when he puts all his strength against hers. She thinks she only wins because he’s lost a lot of blood.

His first words to her are a series of angry growls and her first words to him are, “Stop fucking scratching me.”

It gets a little better, after that. After they’ve stopped the bleeding, after the anger has faded from his eyes and left him exhausted by the campfire.

They eat next to each other in silence, Yasha having been tasked with watching him since she’s the only one who could hold him if he decided to lash out again; he has freakish strength for someone as lanky and probably underfed as he is. He devours whatever is placed in front of him, despite Ornna’s cooking being incredibly shitty, and Yasha feels she understands him a little better, seeing all the signs of a traveler who’s been alone on the road for far too long.

They don’t speak- him because he can’t and Yasha because she doesn’t want to- and that works for them, creating a language of grunts and gestures for the days it takes his voice to return. They’re walking together, into the forest and away from the troupe, and hunting for dinner when she hears it first.

“Watch out,” he grabs Yasha’s arm, getting her attention in case his quiet, raspy voice couldn’t, and gestures to the ground, “Ivy.”

She nods and walks around it. They don’t talk anymore, and her new friend seems grateful for the lack of questions.

He’s a good hunter, they both are, and it’s a lucky thing for the troupe, since rations can only go so far when they get lost between towns and everyone else is too squeamish to hunt their own food. Yasha has been living off the land for as long as she can remember- which is, admittedly, not long- and the tiefling seems just as experienced, easily falling into a pattern with Yasha.

She’s glad the rest of the troupe doesn’t join them when they’re out here, so no one is around to insist that they make small talk or answer personal questions. Or have manners or stop being creepy or-

Be normal. It’s easier to breathe out in the open air with only the sounds of the forest and their own footsteps to accompany them.

The sound of crunching leaves- _many_ crunching leaves- ahead of them and to their right makes Yasha and the tiefling tense at the same time, moving behind the nearest cover and crouching. Yasha takes out her shortswords and hands one to the tiefling. He weighs it in his hand and frowns but holds it ready anyway; Yasha assumes, from the strength she’s seen him display so far, that he’s more accustomed to heavy weapons.

They watch the silhouette of something in the near distance lumbering around, flattening bushes and knocking into trees. Yasha hopes it’ll pass them by and shifts to press herself flatter against the tree. The tiefling moves to do the same but he must trip over a root because he nearly topples over and has to grab a low hanging branch to keep from landing on his ass.

It snaps, of course, and lands in the bush underneath it, shaking the leaves loudly and releasing several startled insects.

The shadow turns toward the sound, giving Yasha an opportunity to see it properly: the head of an owl affixed to a massive bear shaped body. It must see her as well, forgetting its meandering path and making a beeline for their position.

Yasha curses under her breath and stands to meet it, but the tiefling is a few steps ahead of her, leaping over underbrush and bounding into the creature’s space.

He holds his borrowed sword in two hands- though it’s so lightweight the stance is unnecessary- and it bridges the gap between him and the owlbear, its point just brushing the beast’s beak.

The owlbear roars with the shriek of an angered bird, but louder, sharper than a single owl could ever be, so loud it makes Yasha wince. The tiefling seems unbothered, not flinching when the air from the sound blows his hair back, and his face contorts into something definitely _angry_ but also… passionate, energetic, thrilled.

 _Enraged_.

He _roars_ back at the beast and Yasha expects it to come out just as hoarse as his voice was earlier, but he surprises her with a strong, steady cry that carries a sharp edge in a hiss as it trails off.

He bares his fangs in what could be considered a grin, if one were to be generous, and lunges forward, sword clashing against claw. The tiefling fights like a wild animal, slashing recklessly at every opportunity and taking hits without hesitating. None of the owlbear’s strikes, most of which hit the tiefling’s unarmored form, seem to do as much damage as they should and only make the tiefling _angrier_ , bouncing back from every hit with twice as much energy to put into his next.

Yasha hoped the owlbear would have left by now, deciding they weren’t worth the trouble, but it seems intent on staying, on finishing this, so she steps forward, into combat range. She brings her sword up and slides it against the back of her neck, where many other scars from similar moves are engraved. It glows, crackling with energy, and, when she concentrates, forms a line of ice shards, stronger and sharper than they look.

She wields the jagged thing deftly, moving fluidly to lunge at every unguarded spot she sees. It’s a stark contrast to the tiefling’s brute force approach but ultimately gets them the same thing: more strikes against the owlbear than it is able to get on them.

In a last ditch effort, the beast throws its body at the tiefling, choosing to focus on taking at least one of them down. It would have succeeded in tackling him to the ground if Yasha’s quiet arcane words hadn’t made its blood boil and leak out over its eyes, blinding it and sending it off course enough for the tiefling to step out of the way.

The owlbear crashes to the ground and the tiefling spins, slamming his sword down in a killing blow with enough force that it dents and bends the blade.

Definitely used to heavier weapons.

He turns to Yasha with a smile, that feral rage in his solid red eyes lighting up his face. It’s a deeply violent and slightly disturbed expression; blood speckled on cheeks that rise with his wide smile of sharp teeth.

Yasha gets it, sort of, supposing it’s a bit like the thrill of magic in her blood, thrumming out a forbidden rhythm she doesn’t fully understand.

The light fades from the tiefling’s eyes as the energy of battle leaves his tense shoulders, adrenaline and rage draining. He hands her back the sword, bent at an angle that makes it more useful as scrap metal than as a blade.

“Sorry.” His voice is even scratchier now, abused from his earlier battle cry, and he tries to dampen his smile enough to look guilty.

He fails, but Yasha accepts the sword and the apology anyway.

“That’s alright. I’ve been meaning to get a new one.”

…

“You got it? One, two, three… lift!”

Yasha grunts as she takes up the other side of the pole, one of the heavy pillars that’ll hold up their tent. She’s strong, but not quite as strong as Molly, who lifts it onto his shoulder easily.

Now that they’ve been in town for a few days, he’s back to full health and full strength, decent food and a real bed making him feel better than he has in a long time. As intimidating as he can be when he’s ticked off, everyone seems to enjoy having a barbarian around to set up circus tents and move supplies from the carts.

They’ve made him a part of the family, no longer a dangerous stranger or a charity case. He’s gained a voice- courtesy of practice with Yasha- and a name- courtesy of Toya.

It takes Yasha and Molly half as long to set up the tent as it took Yasha when she was doing it alone, which gives them plenty of time to relax in the afternoon. While everyone else is practicing their acts, they sit on the banks of a nearby stream, washing clothes in the clear water.

Molly takes off his coat, the one he’s having specially made of those bright fabrics he’s become so fond of, and takes extra care in washing it. It leaves his arms bare, exposing the scars scattered across his limbs and torso, some from battles he remembers and others from battles he’s glad to forget.

Molly’s scars are varied, clearly from distinct enemies he came across in his travels- both before and after his memory cuts out. Yasha’s are the opposite, all straight lines from the same cut of the same blade, crisscrossing over every available surface.

Despite their differences, seeing the scars make Yasha and Molly feel at home, a little less like freaks and a little more like warriors. They’ve lived through so much and they wear it on their skin as they continue to fight side by side.

Molly looks up at Yasha with those unnerving red, pupil-less eyes and Yasha looks back with her mismatched, too bright eyes. They both smile, happy to be in each other’s company and feel at once understood and undisturbed. There are no secrets between them because they’d never ask, and there’s no shame because they’ve walked such similar paths.

Anybody who’d look at them would think they’re opposites- colorful, energetic, angry Molly and dark, calm, creepy Yasha- but they fit together perfectly, totally at peace.

“You ready for the show tonight?”

Molly is slowly drying his coat as he talks, testing out his voice more and more these days. Yasha doesn’t mind, not like she thought she might. Helping out her friend has quickly started to outweigh her need for silence.

“Yeah, you know, it’ll be fun. Your first show, it’s quite the experience.”

“So I’ve heard,” he pauses, thinking, then says, “I suppose we’ll be the muscle then?”

“That, and I do a bit of juggling at the beginning.”

Molly puts down his coat and stares for a second at the tall, dark figure at his side, trying to determine if she’s joking. Her face doesn’t move to indicate she’s messing with him, remaining as deadpan as it always is.

“What, _really_?”

Yasha laughs and bundles her laundry up, standing as Molly scrambles to follow her. “Yes, really.”

“You _have_ to show me.”

Yasha bites her lip, not wanting to show off but… Molly looks so hopeful, tail swaying back and forth behind him.

“Alright, alright, take these.”

Molly takes the laundry easily, shifting the piles so they don’t obscure his view. Yasha unsheathes both of her swords, takes a few paces back and tosses them in the air, settling into a simple rhythm for a few cycles before dropping them back into her hands and bowing dramatically.

Molly’s eyes are shiny with wonder and Yasha thinks he would clap if he didn’t have his hands full.

“You should teach me sometime!”

Yasha smiles and takes some of the laundry back, looking off into the distance, where the other performers are gathering for the procession. This is just the first of many shows with Molly, and Yasha hopes every one of them feels as special as this one.

They’ve got a long journey ahead and she’s glad to take Molly along with her.

“Definitely.”


	3. Pirates/Dancing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are Fjolly pirate-ish shenanigans.

Molly has done a lot of inexplicably stupid things with the Mighty Nein, but this is probably the stupidest.

 _I mean, seriously, how does one_ accidentally _steal a boat?_

Nonetheless, he’s thankful that their stupidity has at least brought him to the ocean. It’s fascinating to look out across the horizon and just see _water_ for miles and miles and miles. He’s seen oceans on maps and he obviously knows what they are, in theory, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the scale.

There’s just no _end_.

Hoping to get an even better view of the infinite water, he scrambles up the ropes on the mast, swinging and grabbing handholds with no regard for the risk of falling. Even when he stumbles, slipping out of footholds and forcing his arms to bear his weight, he easily recovers and it only makes the process more fun, more challenging.

He’s grateful that everyone else is too busy dealing with the repercussions of their impulsivity to nag him about being more careful. Without other people fussing, he can just enjoy the thrill and the satisfaction of being able to confidently rely on his own strength and dexterity. It makes him feel _alive_ , acutely aware of every movement he makes.

From this high up, he can see the whole deck full of the panicking Mighty Nein. Nott is drinking, Jester is casting Mending on scorch marks, and Caduceus is recovering from his brush with death while Beau and Yasha are trying and failing to help Fjord control the ship.

Oh, Fjord. He looks so stressed as he dashes from disaster to disaster that Molly feels bad for not trying to help, but he thinks he’d only make it worse with his lack of experience. He’s been in a boat… twice? And neither of them even had _sails_.

No, it’s best for Molly to just stay up on his perch and watch the sea. The waves are his favorite part, rising and falling in an irregular pattern like a song with a consistent beat but a chorus that wavers in volume and passion. They move as the ocean breathes, keeping pace with a slow heartbeat that never stutters, up and down and up and down. Some rise higher above others but they all fall just the same, crashing back to become one with a larger body.

It’s a beautiful thing to be a part of. Despite being such a small drop in a large ocean, Molly feels _bigger_ here, like one important wave in the movement of something impossibly large.

Everything about the ocean seems impossible, the waves, the animals, the plants, the _salt_ (he had to taste it for himself, even when Yasha told him not to, and discovered it really _is_ as salty as people say it is. He’d always thought Gustav had been messing with him when he told him about the ocean- why is it _salty_ anyway?) and the sea floor.

Walking in the shallows of the beach had been an experience, feeling it change from carpets of seashells to patches of slimy seaweed and being startled by sudden shifts in depth. It really is a whole other world down there, with its own mountains and valleys; they just can’t see it through the darkness and sand and salt.

The underwater world only gives them hints of its landscape, mere shadows of things just below the surface, like the jagged silhouette of a rocky reef just ahead of them—

_Oh, shit._

“Captain!”

Molly swings to another rope, positioning himself over Fjord on the deck. At the shout, Fjord looks up, tired and resigned to hear about yet another disaster. He watches, dumbfounded, as Molly secures his right hand and foot in the rope and lets it hold his weight so he can lean over the deck and gesture to the reef they’re rapidly approaching.

“Rough waters ahead of us!”

Fjord’s eyes widen and he turns to do something with the wheel and the masts- boat stuff, Molly can’t really keep track- then they’re doing a dramatic turn, as dramatic as these slow, giant boats get, and they’ve safely made it around their obstacle.

“Thanks!” Fjord turns to give Molly a thumbs up and then, inevitably, frowns, “What’re you doing up there?”

“Amusing myself!”

As if to demonstrate, Molly does a complicated thing that involves shifting his weight and wrapping his foot in the rope- acrobat stuff, Fjord can’t really keep track- then he’s hanging upside down by the one foot and waving his arms as if to say “look- no hands!”

In spite of all efforts to suppress it, Fjord smiles, shaking his head at Molly’s shenanigans. He hopes they live long enough for him to see Molly do even more ridiculous things.

“That’s mighty impressive, but it’ll be even more impressive if you could keep a lookout as you do it.”

Still upside down, Molly straightens and does a stiff salute.

“Aye, Captain!”

Fjord rubs a hand over his face. It’s going to be a long night.

…

Late night turns into early morning and Fjord just about collapses when he hears Molly shout “Land!”

_Thank the gods._

It’s the smallest, shittiest island he’s ever seen but it’s a place to anchor the damn boat and a place to sleep, so it’s good enough. He honestly can’t believe he managed to sail the thing by himself all the way here, but he suspects it has something to do with pure luck and merciful waters.

They’ll have to sail back and get a cheap crew ( _anything_ is better than the Mighty Nein alone on a boat) but just the thought of _sailing back_ makes him shudder so he opts instead to add it to the long, ever-growing list of bridges he’ll cross when he gets to them.

He stumbles off the boat in a daze, finds a spot next to the island’s single tree, and sleeps through the whole day, not caring if it’ll fuck up his sleep cycle.

When he wakes, it’s to the sensation of Molly poking him in the face and the sound of a fire crackling, which makes him sit up immediately, nearly knocking heads with Molly.

It’s just Caduceus, cooking over a campfire.

“Wake up, Cad is making crab for everybody.”

Given what he knows about Caduceus, particularly that he lived in a landlocked forest and that he doesn’t eat meat, Fjord is prepared to encounter some extremely questionable crab. Molly doesn’t seem to have the same reservations, immediately diving into the meat placed in front of him, ecstatic to taste something so _new_.

Fjord admires his wonder for the world, a welcome reminder to enjoy the little things he never realized he takes for granted. The crab isn’t that bad, all things considered, and Caduceus promises to heal them if it accidentally ends up poisoning them.

As the campfire dies and everyone begins settling down in the sand to sleep, Molly and Fjord are the only ones left awake. There’re no watches, since they’re on the only land for miles, and everyone is trying to prepare themselves for the journey ahead.

Molly pokes at the fire absently, pondering something. Fjord shifts a little closer, sitting next to him on the sand.

“What sorts of things do people do at the beach?”

“Uh,” Fjord blinks once, unsure how to answer that, “Lots of things. Swimming, tanning, making sandcastles, collecting shells.”

“And at night?”

“Bonfires, parties, I guess. I was never much for the nightlife.”

Molly hums, then smiles, the mischievous one Fjord knows means trouble.

“Do they dance?”

“Dance?”

“On the beach. Do they dance?”

Molly stands and offers Fjord a hand. He takes it, having learned it’s best to go with the flow, especially when it comes to Molly.

“I suppose they might.”

They step a few paces away from the campfire and Molly takes position as the lead in a traditional dance, leaving Fjord to follow him.

Molly, for the record, does not know how to dance and is making it up as he goes along, which means Fjord has to become very skilled in improvisation or trip over his feet. He does the latter. Many, many times.

It’s fun anyway.

Their feet slide against the sand, cool in the night air. It’s a slightly shifting, dynamic dance floor and Molly is loving it, breaking off from Fjord to do his own thing and dance to the music in his head. He spins, shuffles, shakes- whatever he feels like, unaware of or indifferent to how it looks.

“C’mon Fjord, you’ve got to have some signature moves you can show me.”

Fjord shakes his head. “No, I… I’m not the dancing type, I’m afraid.”

“No need to be afraid, no one’s watching. And besides,” Molly slides over, leans in close, and whispers, “we’re pirates now. We can do whatever we want.”

“We’re not _pirates_.”

“Aye, Captain. Best to keep our cover. Arrr.”

Molly winks, grin bright and impossible to argue with. Fjord rolls his eyes and smiles back, knowing he won’t sway Molly.

“What else would you like to do, on the beach?”

“Well,” Molly has gone back to dancing, twirling and experimenting with movement in the sand, “since we’re pirates, and totally above the law, we can do anything, hm?”

Fjord nods cautiously, unsure what Molly means to do, and Molly grins wildly back at him, teeth reflecting the moonlight. It’s then that Fjord realizes how late it is, looking up at the pitch black sky, full moon hanging overhead, and stars twinkling out of the abyss. The rest of the group is asleep, alongside the rest of the world.

Fjord should be sleeping too but he’s wide awake, either from his midday nap or the new and welcome sight of Molly, without warning or ceremony, stripping off his clothes and running off towards the ocean for a midnight dip.

Maybe it’s the dubious crab that makes Fjord follow him, taking off his armor and shoes.

Molly dips his toes in the water then yanks them back, casting an almost betrayed look up at Fjord.

“It’s cold!” He laughs, delighted, somehow, just from that, and steps into the water, watching the ripples around his feet.

“Yeah, it… it does that.”

Molly smiles at Fjord and then looks back over the ocean with a sigh, wild smile softening into something more wistful.

“It’s beautiful.”

Molly stares at the water, wishing he could capture the sight of the moon’s wavering reflection on the dark water and carry it with him in his pocket. Fjord stares at Molly, the moonlight washing over his face giving him an ethereal shine.

“Sure is.”

Molly snickers, wise to Fjord’s gaze without even looking. Fjord would say he’s glad for the darkness hiding his blush, but he’s sure Molly can sense that too. Not much gets past him, not when it comes to Fjord.

His eyes tear away from the ocean and back to Fjord, traveling once over his body then landing on his face. “I wish I could see what it’s like underneath. I’m sure it’s stunning.”

Fjord’s mind stalls for a second, eyes darting downward to Molly’s bare body and his own clothed one, then Molly tilts his head toward the ocean and he realizes he’s being tempted, lured. Still, he can’t bring himself to be mad about it.

“Ah, well,” Fjord bites his lip, feeling the sting of his growing tusks, and considers whether this is wise, “I think I could help with that.”

“Oh?” Molly bats his eyelashes, a gesture that would be exaggeratedly flirtatious in normal circumstances that did not already include his naked body.

Anytime Fjord considers casting a spell, it’s a shot in the dark, based on impulse and hope that it’ll do what he intends it to. He has no idea what he’s doing most of the time, especially when he’s standing in the ocean with Molly in the middle of the night after they’ve stolen a boat.

To that end, he’s started following the lead of other people who seem more put together than him and, believe it or not, even amnesiac, ex-cultist Molly has a better grip on this arcane thing than Fjord. He has reason to believe that Molly would absolutely take the risk and waste this spell. So he does.

“This’ll let us breathe underwater. Come on, I’ll swim us out.”

It’s not long until they’re deep enough to submerge themselves, the island has a rather sudden drop off, and it’s a fairly pleasant swim because, although he learned how to swim yesterday, Molly is a fast learner and does everything with confidence, not an ounce of rational fear in his body.

Fjord realizes he should’ve brought something to weigh them down but Molly doesn’t bother commiserating over lack of preparation, just dives under and finds a handhold on the rock holding up the island, a sort of underwater clifface. He anchors himself like he would in an acrobatic act, as if the pressure of the water is the same as gravity and wind resistance.

Molly is nothing like Fjord, who always feels like a fish out of water in this group. He makes every new environment his home, adapts as if he’s had all the experience in the world instead of a few short years worth.

“I don’t know how all this is so easy for you. We’re on an island in the middle of the ocean, on the run from the crownsguard, and you’re as relaxed as you always are, ready to take a swim as if nothing is wrong.”

Molly laughs and waves a hand through the water, testing and observing the movement. “That’s rich, coming from you. You’re nearly as impulsive as me, the perfect partner in crime.”

“But that’s _just_ impulse. You’re,” Fjord shifts, readjusting his awkward hold on the rock, “adaptable. Anything you start, you can finish.”

“And you’re the same. The only thing you’re missing is confidence.”

“Confidence or competence?”

“It’s the same, isn’t it? If you act like you know what you’re doing, then, for all intents and purposes, you _do_ know what you’re doing. Besides,” he smirks at Fjord and shimmies closer, face inches away and hand cupping Fjord’s cheek, “all this is coming from the man who sailed a boat all by himself yesterday. You were more competent than all the rest of us put together.”

“It was luck, really—“

Molly closes the gap and kisses him. Fjord shuts his eyes and feels the currents of the water gently shift around them, their hair flying in a slow motion halo around their heads. Underwater, it feels like being the center of the universe and completely hidden away all at once. The stars of their own show, with no audience in the stands.

Molly smiles against Fjord’s mouth. “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

“What, kiss underwater?” He pulls back enough to look Molly in the eyes, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “How long have you wanted that?”

“Well, when I saw the ocean I wanted to get in it, then when I was in it I wanted to go under it, then once I was under it I wanted to kiss you. So ever since the idea popped into my head, which was a few minutes ago.”

“Right. So, ten minutes is your idea of ‘always’?”

“Ten minutes is a long time, dear. That’s a whole Identification spell and you know how agonizing it is to wait for that.”

Fjord laughs, the sound bubbling out without conscious thought. It’s always a little surprising how delightful it is to just be near Molly and talk, whether it’s ridiculous or serious (though, it’s usually both).

In a quiet moment, they both turn to stare up at the surface of the water, watching the moonlight meet them in weakened, interrupted rays. Molly was right about it being beautiful, even from all the way down in the separate world under the waves.

“Should we head back? The others will be wondering where we are.”

Molly nods slowly, still staring, as Fjord was, up at the moonlight.

“I suppose I can check ‘midnight skinny dip’ off my bucket list,” he holds onto Fjord as they swim back to the surface, and mutters, under his breath, “That one goes out to you, Moonweaver.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ship is secretly my favorite and it's a _crime_ that it doesn't get the recognition it deserves.


	4. Flowers/Resurrection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly gets resurrected, with unexpected complications.

Caleb lays one last flower on the grave and watches as it regrows roots and pulls itself upright, becoming part of the garden that thrives where their friend lays dead.

He turns his back to it, wishing he could leave the grief behind as simply as he leaves the grave.

An afternoon breeze brushes past him and through the flowers; he can hear them rustle against each other, tangled and still growing. Life from death, as Caduceus says.

There’s a louder sound. The shifting of dirt.

Caleb glances back and just sees the flowers, blooming rapidly under the effects of Caduceus’ spell. Perhaps their unexpected growth is upsetting the earth.

He should be leaving, returning to the others, but something roots him to the ground, some feeling, instinct, suspicion. It’s irrational but he just can’t _move_. Can’t leave. Not yet.

The dirt moves. It’s the flowers; another blooms, creating a burst of beautiful lavender.

It’s nothing.

The feeling, whatever it is, subsides enough for Caleb to turn away, then, as soon as his eyes are off the grave, there’s a sharp _thwack_. Caleb startles and spins around, hand already in his bag of spell components.

The stick holding the coat has fallen over, the ground under it risen in a lump. The flowers part around a gap in the dirt and then there’re more flowers—

 _No_. A hand, covered in flowers.

Caleb stares in disbelief as the hand emerges up to an elbow, hooking itself on the ground and pulling, pulling—

It’s Molly.

He’s shaking dirt from his hair, or what used to be his hair. Now, it falls as long strands of wisteria, framing a face carved from purpleheart wood. The same deep red stares out of the eye sockets, but they’re not quite _eyes_ anymore, just a soft light filling an emptiness in his face.

He smiles, grin wide and bright as it always is, teeth composed of a light wood.

“Mr. Caleb! What’ve I missed?”

…

“Ah,” Caduceus looks over Molly and sips his tea, “Well, that’s an unexpected result.”

“ _Unexpected_? He’s a fucking tree!” Beau gestures wildly towards Molly, wishing she could adequately express the insanity of this in just a hand wave.

Molly is the center of attention and, as usual, he doesn’t mind one bit. He’s the center of his own attention, the rest of the world fading away as he flexes his new fingers, combs through his flower hair and concentrates on that odd sensation in the back of his head.

It’s like trying to remember a dream, grasping for something hidden in his subconscious. It feels like something he’s forgotten, almost the same as discovering his bloodhunter abilities had felt- but it can’t be that, all this is _new_ , surely.

The feeling comes into focus a bit more, allowing Molly’s mind to grab onto the vague sensation and not let go until he pieces it all together. He closes his eyes, just feeling and listening now.

 _Warmth_.

He feels grass at his back and sides, a comforting blanket beneath him. The heat of a campfire rolls over him, chasing away the chill of the darkness. Moss grows under his feet, carpeting a path over cold stones.

 _Strength_.

A tree bears his weight easily as he ascends her branches, climbing to peer through the leaves. In the field before him, flowers smolder into ash and spring back up, undeterred by disaster. Dirt resists being interrupted by his shovel, weighing down any efforts to break its surface.

 _Growth_.

He steps over a weed growing from a crack in the pavement, its roots gradually widening the gap and making its unwanted presence permanent. A forest that had been razed to the ground by wildfire sprouts new bushes and flowers. In a graveyard, flowers bloom from corpses, using their remaining life to combat the corruption that threatens to overtake them.

Molly opens his eyes to the sight of flowers growing from his hands, his horns, his neck. They wind around him in colorful adornments, bracelets of peonies, a necklace of roses, and chains of marigolds hanging from his horns. A sunflower stem circles his upper arm and stays there, blooming on the shoulder above his heart.

There’re flowers everywhere now, some taking hold on this new body and others falling to the ground around his feet. He sees all different kinds, can recognize them from Yasha’s book; hyacinth, hydrangea, snapdragon, lilac- too many to name or count.

Caleb stares at him in disbelief, eyes darting around as if looking for the source of the flowers. Everyone is staring at him, and Molly smiles for the crowd.

They don’t seem to appreciate it much, staring just as slack-jawed as before, if not more so. Caleb breaks the silence, clearing his throat.

“That’s a neat trick.”

Molly stands straighter at the compliment, eager to latch onto something normal and familiar in this time of change. “Thank you, Caleb. I’m trying to learn how all of this works.”

“It’s very pretty!” Jester recovers next, moving to his side and grabbing his arm, making her the first person to touch him since Caleb helped pull him out of the grave, “Can I have one?”

Molly smiles and Jester is happy to see that hasn’t changed, as sharp and mirthful as before, just with more wood.

“Go for it.”

Jester hesitates, bites her lip, screws up her face in concentration, then reaches up to _very_ _carefully_ pluck a marigold from his horn.

She looks down at it in wonder, twirling it between her fingers, then back up at Molly. “Did that hurt?”

“No, not at all.”

Beau approaches, looking Molly in the eye for the first time since she called him a tree, and, without warning or windup, punches him in the arm.

There’s a _crack_ of an impact as her knuckles collide with wood, leaving Beau wincing and shaking her hand. “Did _that_ hurt?”

Molly rubs his arm, grimacing. Beau hits _hard_ and, apparently, the wood doesn’t count as armor if it’s his new skin.

“Ow, yes. Couldn’t you have given me a warning or something?”

“I didn’t even think it would do anything,” Beau’s face drops in mock horror and she looks over to Jester, “Does this mean that _all_ trees can feel when I hit them?”

Jester giggles and Molly rolls his eyes, though the expression is mostly lost without pupils. Or real _eyes_ , in the human sense.

“Do a lot of tree punching in your spare time?”

Beau looks about ready to give an emphatic _yes_ to that when Caduceus intervenes, deep, clear voice breaking both their bickering and his own lost-in-thought state.

“Well, he’s not quite a tree. He probably has nerves and blood and such, which hurt when hit.”

“We could test that.” Nott loads a crossbow bolt and jokingly ( _hopefully_ jokingly) aims it at Molly, but Fjord steps in between them.

“Let’s _not_ do that. Caduceus, do you know what the fuck is going on?”

Caduceus hasn’t really looked up from his tea and _definitely_ hasn’t given Molly’s new state much thought, not even while the rest of the group had been panicking about it.

“There are all sorts of things that could bring this about, in theory. Arcane or divine forces could have claim on his soul, or the magic of my spell could have taken hold in an odd way,” Caduceus downs the rest of his tea and begins polishing off the cup with a cloth, “You just never know. Life is funny like that.”

“Should we,” Fjord pauses, at a loss with this whole conversation, “be trying to, like, fix him?”

Caduceus glances at Molly, who’s growing a patch of snapdragons between the wood planks of their inn room floor. “I don’t think it _needs_ to be fixed, if there even is a way to change him back.”

“But—“

“I’m alive,” Molly interrupts, providing much needed input on this conversation about _him_ , “That’s all that matters, I think. And I can do a bunch of super cool things now. Look.”

The snapdragon patch doubles in size, becoming a proper two foot wide bush. The floorboards creak and Fjord is beginning to think that they’ll have to leave town very quickly after they exit this inn.

“This’ll be so fun! We can go out and make flowers grow everywhere, oh, Yasha will love this-“ Jester’s face pales, turning sky blue, “Oh gods, _Yasha_. We have to tell her you’re alive.”

Molly has been so distracted with rising from the dead that he hadn’t even thought to question Yasha’s absence, figuring she’d just left to take care of something or get some space after their ordeal. Of course she’d be distraught, they _buried_ him.

“You can send her a message, right? Just tell her, right now.”

“I can’t, I’m sorry. I don’t have it prepared,” Jester’s face is quickly turning to a mirror of Molly’s panic, “I’m sorry.”

Molly breathes in deeply, trying not to think of what he’d do if he thought he’d lost Yasha. He rubs Jester’s back reassuringly, though his heart isn’t in it.

“It’s ok, we’ll just do it tomorrow. She’ll be fine,” he looks down and adds, to himself, “She’s always ok. She’ll be fine.”

He hopes she’s ok. He prays to every god he knows that she hasn’t done something stupid and he _hopes_ with all he has, with this new wooden heart of his.

Beau nods along with them. “Yasha’s strong, she hasn’t given up yet,” she smiles and punches Molly in the arm again, much softer, “We should get you to bed, tree man. Dying probably takes a lot out of you.”

As much as he hates to admit it, Beau is right. He’s _exhausted_ , depleting energy wilting his flowers and making his wooden limbs feel heavy.

He lets them lead him to bed, lets Beau fill his head with empty promises of Yasha returning. As he lays down to sleep, the bed seems just as soft as it was when he was human, and he’s grateful to still have that comfort.

He passes the night with peaceful, pleasant dreams. No blood, no death, no Lucien.

Just flowers.

…

Molly is waiting outside in the rain, stubbornly ignoring Beau’s teasing about the possibility of him being struck by lightning and set on fire. The dirt below him is growing a thick rug of moss and mushrooms, soft under his bare feet. His coat thrashes in the winds and the wisteria on his head gets in his eyes, but he pays it no mind.

He’s waiting out the storm, hoping this’ll be the one that brings her.

“Wild weather, hm?”

Caleb has to raise his voice to be heard over the heavy rains and thunder. He’s shivering already, rain soaking through his ratty coat.

“Gods, Caleb, you’ll catch your death out here.” Molly pulls him deeper in the shade of a tree, presses his hand against the trunk, and feels the tree’s branches extend and its leaves grow broad enough to give them suitable cover.

Caleb laughs and blinks raindrops out of his eyes, staring at Molly’s worried face. “Did dying turn you into a mother hen, too? I’m fragile, but not that fragile, Mollymauk.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Molly grins, then adds, more seriously, “I’d feel better if you let me buy you a decent coat.”

Caleb looks down, feeling guilty on two fronts- being needy and making Molly pity him. “That’s not necessary.”

“It _is_ necessary. I’ll have only the best for my favorite wizard. Besides,” Molly smiles, shifts to move closer, then hesitates, moving back, “if I just get you a coat, I know you won’t refuse it.”

Caleb hums, unable to refute that. He presses closer to Molly, grabbing his hand and resting his head against the tiefling’s shoulder. It’s always nice to be near Caleb but it’s even nicer now, when everyone else seems so hesitant to get close to Molly, in this strange new body.

It’s over too soon as Caleb pulls away, detaching himself and stepping back.

“So the storm did bring her, after all.”

Molly blinks in confusion, his thoughts too caught up in the tide of _Caleb Caleb Caleb_ to process what he means, then—

He turns and Yasha is there, standing in the rain.

Caleb leaves, he thinks, but Molly isn’t sure because he’s so focused on his best friend, his first friend, who’s been with him through new life and death. She’s _ok_ and he’s so _happy_.

Whatever he’s feeling, Yasha is feeling double that when she sees Molly standing before her and _breathing_ , albeit with more flowers than she’s used to.

Sensing her apprehension, Molly fidgets with the flowers, twisting the wisteria around his fingers. “It’s a bit of a different look, I’m sure it’ll take some getting used to—“

Yasha pulls Molly into a crushing hug, lifting him clear off the ground. Molly puts his arms around her and is happy to see she doesn’t flinch at the touch of wood instead of skin.

She doesn’t say anything, a woman of too few words to express the thousands in her head, just keeps hugging him as the rain dies and the last lightning strike flashes in the far distance.

Yasha doesn’t fully let go of him even when she sets him down, holding onto his arm as if he might vanish if she looks away or breaks contact. Molly doesn’t mind, using his free hand to summon a daisy and tangle it in Yasha’s hair.

“For your collection.”

He’s sure it’s just rain on her face and not tears, never tears for strong, stoic Yasha. He’ll pretend for her, if it makes her happy.

This is life, standing in the sunshine after a rainstorm with your best friend and just _breathing_. They’re alive, they’re not alone. Family, always, no matter what form they take.

Molly looks up at Yasha, ready to say what he’s been thinking since he first saw her emerge from that rainstorm, the first time they’ve seen each other since the night she was kidnapped, but she beats him to it.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”


	5. Modern AU/Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Molly does dumb but good things and Caleb is his reluctant accomplice.

Molly’s general rule of thumb is to leave the world a little better than how he found it.

And a little more chaotic.

Typically, he’s found that in order to achieve both of those things, one will eventually be on the run from the cops. Which he is now.

As he nearly gets run over for the third time that night, diving across traffic and into an alley where he leaps onto a dumpster and scales an apartment complex, he takes a rare moment of reflection to think about how he ended up in this position.

It either started with the kids who tried to rob him or the racist elven lady, depending on how much faith you put in Molly’s moral code.

…

_When a bony hand reaches into his purse, Molly stops and fidgets with his phone to give the kid a better chance. He may not be the most observant person, but even he saw the three dirty, skinny children sneaking up behind him._

_He’s not exactly made of money- he reads fortunes, for gods’ sake- but he can spare something to give to people even less fortunate than him. Whatever they can swipe, they’ve earned._

_When Molly dies in Crossy Road, he moves on and the kids scatter, back to whatever alley they crawled out of. He wishes he could help more, but they’re just three of many in this city._

_It probably won’t keep him up at night, but it does distract him long enough to not look where he’s going, long enough to trip over an older elven lady. Old enough to look old, which means she must be_ ancient _._

_“Sorry—“_

_Molly cuts himself off at the look on her face, needlessly shocked and disgusted. He knows what that means._

_There’s no major freak out, which is nicer than previous encounters of similar types, but she does mutter “demon” as she crosses the street in a hurry. She’s dramatically rubbing at the front of her shirt, as if Molly might’ve gotten a bit of his Infernal on her._

_He’s gotten it before, and gotten it far worse. It probably won’t keep him up at night._

_That might’ve been the end of it, if Molly wasn’t Molly._

_The shiny pearls around her neck and the gold bracelets on her wrist give him an idea._

_And_ that _is what’ll keep him up at night._

…

Caleb wakes at precisely 3:34 am to the sound of his phone buzzing violently against his nightstand. He grabs for it blindly, wondering which of his dumb friends could be calling at this time of night.

The screen lights up too bright in the dark, washing over his face and forcing his eyes to squint to adjust. ‘Robin Hood’, Molly’s chosen nickname on Caleb’s phone, is calling, which would’ve earned Caleb money if he’d bet on it. Late night calls of all kinds are Molly almost eighty percent of the time.

He lets it ring for a few seconds, pretending to debate taking the call. He promises himself that if this isn’t an emergency, he’ll kill Molly, but it’s an empty promise, one he never keeps when Molly calls him high or horny or just _bored_.

He answers the call.

“This had better be good, Mollymauk.”

There’s a huff, some shuffling, and the sounds of a busy street on the other end of the call before Molly finally speaks, out of breath.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s an emergency, actually,” he grunts and Caleb hears something slamming against metal, “Are you still friends with that guy in Nicodranas?”

Caleb sits up in bed and rubs his eyes. He really doesn’t need this, at _3:36_ in the morning.

“ _Friends_ is a strong word.”

Caleb can practically _hear_ the eye roll on the other end of the line, but he ignores it because Molly has no right to be annoyed with him, when he’s calling at _3:37 in the morning_.

“Associate, acquaintance, whatever. Will he still help you cross the border?”

“Molly, what-“ Caleb sighs and runs a hand over his face. He’d been _fine_ when they talked last week. “What could you have possibly done in the last few days that makes this necessary? No, no, don’t tell me, I want plausible deniability. Just, how soon do you need to leave?”

“Well-“ Molly starts but is cut off by the blare of police sirens and his own footsteps against the pavement. When the noise fades a bit, he asks, “Does that answer your question?”

Caleb groans, standing to grab his coat and books. It’s going to be another long night.

“Unfortunately, yes. Can you hold out till morning?”

He can imagine Molly grinning on the other end, feels the sharp energy of it through the screen.

“Have I ever given you reason to doubt my skills?”

…

_After about the third rich person party he’d robbed, Molly starts to think he’s getting in a little too deep._

_But he’s got a bag full of jewelry and other useless expensive trinkets and he’s driving to yet another pawn shop, so he’s committed for now._ _Emerging with a wad of cash is pretty satisfying and spending it on a car full of nonperishable meals and blankets eliminates all doubt and conflicting feelings from his mind._

_This whole scheme has gotten pretty ridiculous and is beginning to take way too much planning- he’s had to research parties and fake identities and pawn shops. It shouldn’t have been this elaborate when the premise seemed so easy: steal from the rich, give to the poor. But bullshitting your way into parties without a plan is risky, and selling hoards of jewelry to the local pawn shop every week is a surefire way to get investigated and arrested._

_It’s a lot of work, more work and planning than Molly typically participates in, but it’s worth it. The people who attend these kind of parties are the perfect sort of uptight that provides endless entertainment, and pretending to be rich (or even royalty, on one occasion) is not only fun but empowering. Nobody dares question guests at these parties, he could tell them he got banished from a pirate island and they’d nod politely while sipping champagne._

_Some people would say it’s exhausting pretending to be someone else, but not Molly. For him, it’s exhilarating to weave lie after increasingly ridiculous lie- and it’s not hard either. Rich Molly is just Molly but worse and shinier._

_He will say that the best part isn’t the parties or the lies. It’s now, as he rolls up to one of the dark alleys in the worst part of town and finds the sad little camp of boxes and torn blankets._

_The kids don’t approach him, watching warily as he sets down his offerings of food and other supplies from Dollar Tree. It’s the most he could get with the money he made, plus his efforts in bargain hunting and buying in bulk. They’ll eat and be warm for months, hopefully._

_This camp is just one in a series of stops he’ll make today, grim reminders of the desolate conditions the poor of Zadash live in. He’s determined to keep up this act until every one of the kids in this city has gotten their share of its wealth. Or until he’s arrested._

_One of the bigger kids comes out first, opening up cans for the little ones and passing out blankets. He waves to Molly, a small gesture of thanks before he turns his attention to his charges._

_Molly waves but doesn’t stop long, heading back to his car before he gets wrapped up in a conversation. He has more work to do, if he’s going to make this city better._

…

Caleb rubs at his eyes again, trying to make them focus on the map through the haze of his exhaustion and shakiness of Molly’s shitty driving.

They almost go airborne on a bump in the road and Caleb scrambles to keep hold of his books.

“ _Scheisse_ , Molly. Easy on the gas pedal, I need to make sure we’re going the right way.”

Molly nods absently, eyes darting in between the windshield and rear view mirror, watching fervently for any sign of authorities. Caleb’s contact in Nicodranas has outlined the fastest, most discreet route over the border, but these things can change so fast that there’re never any true guarantees of safety. At least he has Caleb here to navigate and steer him out of trouble. If anyone can talk Molly out of a jail cell, it’ll be Caleb.

“Left here.”

Molly turns the wheel too hard, taking the turn as sharp as he can. Caleb is holding onto the armrests for dear life and staring at Molly in disbelief. It’s a wonder to Caleb that they haven’t died yet, with Molly being as impulsive in driving as he is in life. He should’ve called Fjord and made him give them a ride.

“You’re just going to attract more attention if you drive so fast,” Caleb pauses as he watches the meter lower a little closer to the speed limit. He’s got to find a way to distract Molly from the high speed chase he’s envisioning, “Finish telling your story, I’m dying to know how your flawless plans could’ve been outsmarted.”

…

_Picking pockets is not a terribly difficult art. Some can do it masterfully, some are abysmal at it, but most can do a decent job and grab a few things without trying their luck._

_Molly falls into the last category, but he’s too stubborn for his own good. He just_ has _to get that last bracelet._

_The woman he’s robbing, a respectable, no nonsense businessperson, looks down at Molly when his hands slip. He manages to not only screw up his extraction of the bracelet, but also drop the rest of her jewelry to the ground with a loud series of clinks._

_Molly only has time for an abashed smile before he’s leaving a tiefling shaped cloud of dust behind him and utilizing his other talent: running._

_There’s a broken window, a two story climb, and a crash through some overly manicured hedges, then he’s hitting the pavement and diving down the nearest alley as sirens wail in the distance._

_He stops to heave in a few breaths, preparing for a chase, and that turns out to be a mistake as the guards for the party are smarter and faster than he thought. There’s shouting and uniforms so he makes a quick decision, jumping up—_

“I can’t believe you. We had to leave the country because you suddenly became a bigger kleptomaniac than _Nott_?”

“Technically,” Molly smiles at Beau across the table from him, “ _you_ didn’t have to leave. This is just your excuse for a vacation.”

Beau crosses her arms and returns the shit-eating grin. “But I couldn’t leave my _best friend_ to fend for himself in his run from the police.”

Molly is going to fire back, maybe bring up the time they had to evacuate a town because of something _Beau_ did (they can _never_ go back to Trostenwald) but Jester walks in carrying a tray of cookies and he’s sufficiently distracted.

“Look what my mama had the cooks bake!”

Jester giggles as Beau and Molly immediately pounce on the plate, competing to build the biggest cookie pile. She snatches a cookie from Beau’s pile and sits down with them, smiling with crumbs in her teeth.

“Since we’re sort of trapped here until the police forget about Molly-“

“ _Trapped_ is such a strong word.”

“-then we’ll have to plan a bunch of beach days to fill time. We’ll get to drag Caleb out there and we could invite Nott’s family, I’m sure Yeza would love to see the ocean!”

Jester’s words become indistinct as Molly zones out, content to enjoy this moment with friends despite the circumstances that landed him here.

It’s a happy ending, and some good karma from the world at last. He did something good by doing something bad and now he gets to hang out at the beach with his friends- his _family_.

Gods, he can’t wait to goad Caleb into buying swim trunks in the most atrocious pattern possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it! I didn't get as many prompts done as I wanted, but I'm happy with what I did get. I really should've edited a bit more, but I'll drive myself crazy if I spend too much time on it. 
> 
> Y'all can thank coronavirus for getting me antsy enough to edit and post old fics. Finally checking things off the to-do list!


End file.
